The museum of decrepitude


People come and go. Wars rage, diseases are cured, the planet becomes hotter.

But one thing remains unchanged: My house is a monument to unpacked boxes and unfinished projects.

boxcity.jpg Why am I content to live in such chaos? Where does it start? Where does it end?

Among the exhibits is the packed box collection. Highlights include School Papers: Grades 1-3, Kitchen Misc. and Magazines & Souvenirs. Because I move only once a decade, it’s quite possible many boxes have been untouched since a previous move.

They could go to storage. They could go to the dump. Instead, they remain loose in the wilds of my laundry room, or office, or sometimes the empty dining room.

So sad.

Storage, purging and organization would go a long way to solving the recurring problems of clutter and junk. Sounds great, but no motivation.

Status quo has never looked more appealing.

The yard remains barely tended, a mishmash of old leaves, new weeds, unruly grass amid patches of dirt and decay, plants of unknown origin. The blinds remain shut, so that I may avoid the view the neighbors rue.

This inertia seems unaffected by the amount of free time or energy available. I can’t seem to move it up higher on the to-do list.

In the next life, I’ll work it out. Or I’ll be finishing up stuff from this life.


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